


Taming a Hawk

by RandomSlasher (Randomslasher), Thuri



Series: Taming a Hawk [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Age Play, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild S&M, Sappy, Sweet, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomslasher/pseuds/RandomSlasher, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thuri/pseuds/Thuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil swallowed, still just watching him, but after a second, he slowly pushed himself up and forward. He moved slowly, carefully, giving Clint every opportunity to pull away. </p><p>Clint knew he should. He should laugh, make a joke, move. But he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot, staring as Phil moved closer and closer to him. Phil, who’d told him he was a dom, who told him he expected Clint to want to give up control, who had said all those things that morning, those things that’d wormed inside him, scaring him with how true they were, how badly he wanted what Phil had described.</p><p>Phil, who was trying to save him, trying to fix things, for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taming a Hawk

**Author's Note:**

> Notes from RS: This is probably a different take on sub/dom dynamic than you’ve seen before. If you’re hoping for kinky sex play only, this is probably not the fic for you. This treats the relationship between a sub and dom as the sacred bond of trust it should be, and takes that trust very seriously. You have been warned. :)
> 
> From Thuri: What she said. Set pre-Avengers, no spoilers for the movie. Now enjoy!

Clint knew he’d fucked up big this time. 

Since joining S.H.I.E.L.D., he’d come to understand the unspoken rules of the organization--the ones that ran just beneath the surface of the suit-and-tie exterior. There were two sets of regulations: the ones that everyone knew and almost everyone bent or broke, and the ones that were left unspoken and never, ever disobeyed. 

He’d learned which of the first set he could get away with ignoring. And he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt which of the second could get him tossed onto the street, after several intensive bouts of cognitive reconditioning to make him forget he’d ever even heard of the organization. 

He knew he had crossed that second line today. 

No one had said anything yet. But as he paced in Fury’s office, too on-edge to sit still, he could feel it. It vibrated around him, making the air thick and hard to breathe. The usually-spacious office felt confining, its large windows doing nothing to make him feel less trapped. Instead, he just felt more exposed. 

Fury was reading the report silently. At his side, Agent Hill was standing at parade rest, hands clasped behind her back as she gazed, firm-jawed and tight-lipped, at Clint. Agent Coulson stood off to one side, leaning against a countertop and keeping his gaze unfocused, aimed at some neutral point near Fury’s desk. 

He wouldn’t meet Clint’s eyes. That was the worst of it. He’d written the report, and Clint knew that what he’d said could make or break him here. He didn’t have to see it to know it would be hard-lined and accurate: Agent Coulson was nothing if not completely professional. 

The fact that he wouldn’t meet Clint’s eyes made this harder to bear. _Shit_. 

Finally, Director Fury set the report down on his desk, folding his hands on top of it, and looking up to meet Clint’s eyes. 

Clint stopped pacing. You didn’t move under a gaze like that. 

“Agent Barton,” he said, and his voice was quiet, not the hard edge of steel Clint had been expecting. Instead, he sounded...regretful. Disappointed. 

Clint decided immediately that was about eight thousand times worse. Fury yelling at him, he could take. Fury resigned was Fury writing him off as a loss, and that...

That was unacceptable. 

“Sir, I had the shot,” he gritted, hating that the words sounded like a plea. “I _had_ him. I had to take it.” 

“Against Agent Coulson’s direct orders.” 

“If we didn’t act soon, those people were going to die, sir.” 

“Two of them nearly did, Agent Barton, because we did not have accurate intel about their locations inside the structure.” 

“All due respect, sir, gathering _intel_ isn’t my job.” 

“No. It isn’t,” Fury sighed. “Your job is to obey the direct orders of your superiors until such time as they determine what course of action is likely to bring about the best possible results for everyone involved.” 

“We saved _seven_ junior agents,” Clint snapped, fingers curling into fists. “Not to mention a handful of civilians. I’d call that a win, _sir_.” 

Fury sighed. “And that is precisely what concerns me,” he said. “This organization runs on a network of specialized skill sets. Each individual within, from the newest Junior Agent to myself, must know and understand exactly what his set entails, and must have the utmost trust in those around him to carry out their own part of the mission.” 

“But I _had_ the shot, sir,” Clint insisted, raking a hand through his hair. “And it worked, didn’t it?” 

“Taking that shot was not your call to make,” Fury snapped. “You disobeyed a direct order from your superior, and in doing so, put many lives at unnecessary risk. Do you understand why we are concerned?” 

“I understand no one likes me being _right_ ,” Clint snapped back, unable to stop himself. Dammit, he’d _had_ the shot. Coulson not calling it shouldn’t be the issue, here, not when they’d pulled it off. When he’d known better, for once. 

“You weren’t right,” Fury said. “You were _lucky_. The fact that you don’t seem to understand the difference is incredibly distressing from my perspective.” 

Clint clenched his jaw, his fingertips digging into his palms. He nodded, once, curtly. If Fury had gotten to calling him a distressing idiot, things were pretty much over. “Understood, sir. I imagine this is where you tell me to go to hell?”

Fury turned his attention to Coulson, then. “We need to decide how we are going to proceed,” he said. 

Coulson nodded, eyes still lowered. “Understood, sir,” he said softly. 

“For the time being, Agent Hill will take over your other agents and responsibilities. Until such time as you can get this situation under control, you are effectively relieved of your duties. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Wait, what?” Clint narrowed his eyes, panic stirring in his chest. “Hey...no, this was on me, not Coulson. You can’t...”

“Thank you, Agent Barton, that is quite enough,” Fury said, holding up a hand. “Agent Coulson has a responsibility as your handler to ensure your understanding of crucial mission parameters, which was clearly not the case here. Until such time as I can be assured you will follow his orders without question, I cannot risk another incident such as this.” 

“So you’re grounding _him_?” Clint glanced over at Coulson, his stomach twisting, hot guilt rising in the back of his throat. _Dammit_. He was used to fucking things up for himself, but this...this had to be one of the worst things he’d done. Especially since joining S.H.I.E.L.D., since he’d actually started trying to make a damn _difference_...he’d managed to screw over the best guy they had. “I’ll quit, I’ll help with the lobotomy, whatever, but...please, sir. This isn’t right.”

Coulson finally looked up and met his gaze, face completely blank. “Enough, Barton,” he said quietly. Then, to Fury: “Are we done here?” 

Fury nodded. “For now,” he agreed, closing the mission report. “Coulson, why don’t you take Agent Hill to your office and get her caught up on anything pertinent she’ll need in the next few weeks. Or months,” he added, casting a quick, assessing glance at Clint. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Coulson straightened, giving Fury a nod, then inclined his head toward Hill, who followed him out of Fury’s office without a backward glance. 

Fury folded his hands on his desk and watched Clint for a long, quiet moment. “Agent Barton, as of now, you are being placed in an inactive status pending your completion of...additional training. You will still be on this organization’s payroll until such time as it is determined you are a greater liability than asset to us. If you are truly concerned with your status in this organization--or that of Agent Coulson--then I suggest you take the training to heart. I don’t want to lose two of my best agents to a stubborn streak of foolish pride. Is that clear?” 

Clint clenched his jaw once more, but straightened and saluted. “Understood, sir,” he replied, swallowing down further protests. For himself, he would’ve said fuck it and run, just as he had so many times before. But he couldn’t do that to Coulson. S.H.I.E.L.D. was his life, it meant something real to him...Clint couldn’t jeopardize that any more than he already had.

“Very well. Dismissed.” 

Clint hesitated, then nodded. He wasn’t at all certain what he was supposed to do now. Swear on a stack of bibles that he’d always follow orders? Run through a bunch of military boot camp drills? Spend a couple weeks in an extended game of truth or dare? 

He paused outside of Fury’s office, at a loss. Then, sighing to himself, he headed to his chambers. If he was inactive, they probably weren’t going to be letting him stay on base. He might as well pack a bag. 

From there, he’d just have to wait and see what happened.

* * *

It was two hours before Coulson found him. 

Clint had packed his meagre possessions into a duffel bag, including several changes of clothes, a few tattered books, a toothbrush, and his iPod. All of his weapons except one dagger were technically the property of S.H.I.E.L.D.. The dagger he tucked away into its usual place at his ankle, but the rest of the weapons he didn’t risk, much as he wished to take them along. He wouldn’t chance having some sort of claim of theft put Coulson in further danger. 

He was sitting anxiously on the edge of his mattress when there was a quiet knock at the door. He called, “Come in,” and a moment later was greeted with an unusual sight. 

Coulson was not exactly a man to ever go casual. The most dressed-down Clint had ever seen him was the time, stuck in that miserable stake-out in the Nevada heat, that he’d taken off his suit coat and pushed his sleeves to his elbows, loosening his tie a fraction. Clint himself had felt on the verge of a heatstroke in his thin sleeveless t-shirt; he didn’t know how Coulson had managed, even without the jacket. 

Now, however, he was wearing a pair of jeans and a black sweater that fit his form quite nicely, if Clint were in the mood to notice those things. But as many times as he’d wished to see his handler in casual attire, his enjoyment was soured by the fact that Coulson had dressed down because he’d basically been suspended. Because of Clint. 

This was emphasized by the backpack Coulson had slung over one shoulder, no doubt containing whatever personal effects he hadn’t wanted to leave in the S.H.I.E.L.D. base for the duration of...whatever this was going to be. 

The Agent gave him a small, tight-lipped smile of acknowledgement. “Well,” he said quietly. 

“I’m sorry,” Clint said, the words he knew he should’ve offered earlier, and hadn’t. “If I’d known they’d blame you for my shit...”

Coulson simply looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Not here,” he said. “Let’s go.” He turned on his heels, heading out of the room and into the corridors. 

Clint followed, jogging a bit to keep up with Coulson’s rapid gait. Other agents around them were casting Coulson looks that ranged from startled to curious to disbelieving and horrified, and Clint knew precisely how it must look to them: Coulson out of uniform, with a backpack over his shoulder, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. He did his best to deflect the stares with pointed glares. 

When they left the base, stepping out into the crisp New York October afternoon, Coulson paused, turning back to look at him again. 

“You don’t have a place in the city,” he said, and it wasn’t a question, but he seemed to be waiting for an answer anyway. 

“Just left the only place I’ve got, you know that,” Clint replied, shrugging one shoulder. It wasn’t like it was a big secret that S.H.I.E.L.D. was the only thing he had going for him.

“You’ll stay with me, then,” Coulson said decisively.

“I can grab a hotel,” Clint protested, not wanting to wreck more of Coulson’s life and routine than he already had. “You don’t have to...”

Coulson turned around then, facing him, and there was something in his expression that shut Clint up--a mix of emotions he couldn’t identify but which seemed completely out of place running rampant as they were across the usually-stoic man’s face. “No,” he said. “I need to make this right for you, Barton. I don’t want to wait any longer than necessary.” 

Why was everyone trying to blame Coulson for the fact that Clint was a fuck-up? He didn’t understand it, but he nodded, slowly. “I don’t think you made anything wrong, but...okay.”

Coulson studied him for a moment, the tight-lipped expression back, but nodded once and turned away, heading back down the street. Clint could do nothing but try to keep up. 

They reached Coulson’s apartment about ten minutes later. It wasn’t in the best part of town, though it was certainly not in the slums, but in spite of some of the toughs standing around looking menacing, no one even glanced in Coulson’s direction. A few gave him appraising looks, but they seemed to steer well clear of the Agent. Clint wondered what Coulson had done to earn their respectful disinterest. He wished he could have seen it, whatever it was. 

Coulson unlocked the apartment’s front door, then headed to the stairs. “No elevator,” he announced apologetically. 

Clint shrugged--he rarely used elevators anyway--and followed Coulson up to the fifth floor, which turned out to be a loft unit. He was surprised, until Coulson stepped inside and he took a step in after. 

The place was nice, if a bit...impersonal. The main entrance was a large, open-aired room with a vaulted ceiling and a skylight, as well as a sliding glass door that led out onto a balcony. The room wasn’t carpeted, but the hardwood floor looked clean, and there was an oriental rug under the polished oak coffee table. A modest television sat in one corner, and a plain cream-colored sofa sat across from it. The walls were mostly bare except for a few pieces of nondescript art, the sort one might find in a high-end hotel suite. They were obviously meant to make the place look more lived-in, but they only managed to make it feel more like a model unit. _Here’s how your home could look, if you lived here._

He wondered how many times a week Coulson actually made it back here. 

The kitchen was off to the left of the main entrance, and a short hallway led to a few doors which Clint could only assume were the bathroom and master bedroom. He found himself wondering if Coulson had a guest room, or if he’d be sleeping on the couch. He’d definitely slept on worse, if that was the case. 

Coulson moved into the room and set his duffel bag aside, then moved to the countertop that separated the kitchen from the living area. Leaning over, he peered into a small bowl that Clint realized with some surprise contained a betta fish of vibrant red and purple. 

“Hey, Caesar,” he said, shaking a few pellets of food into the bowl. 

Clint blinked, feeling a smile come unbidden to his lips. He’d never pictured Coulson with a pet...but it certainly seemed to fit. And the betta seemed more interested in Coulson even than the food, darting back and forth and rising up to the top of the water.

The fish did what the impersonal paintings and too polished floors hadn’t. They made him feel like an intruder. This wasn’t how he ever would’ve wanted to be invited back to Coulson’s place...but it was probably the only way he ever would’ve been.

“Sir? Where do you want me to...” he trailed off, when Coulson looked up, feeling awkward.

Coulson looked up at him. “We’re suspended from duty, Barton,” he said. “You don’t have to call me ‘sir.’”

“And you could call me Clint, but it’s not gonna happen,” Clint pointed out, shrugging one shoulder. “Where do you want me to stash my shit?”

“I’ll ask you to watch your language in front of Caesar,” Coulson said, arching an eyebrow. “I don’t want him picking up any bad habits from you.” 

Clint stared at Coulson, before snorting, softly. “Was that actually a joke?”

“If you could call it that,” Coulson said, shrugging a little. “That might be a generous assessment, though.” 

“I’ll take what I can get,” Clint replied. “So...where do you want me to put my stuff, then?” 

“Guest room is second door on the left,” Coulson said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “It’s all yours.” 

“Thanks.” Clint headed down the hall, absently examining his surroundings, mostly from habit. The rest of the apartment matched what he’d already seen. Including the guest bedroom. He opened the door to find a bed, a bedside table, and a dresser. Another hotel art print on the wall, a brown comforter with blue pinstripes, nothing remotely personal. But then, what guest room was?

Shrugging, Clint locked the door behind him, dropped his bag at the foot of the bed and flopped down onto it, his face smushed against the pillows. Fuck. What kind of training could Coulson possibly have planned to fix _this_?

* * *

He hadn’t intended to doze off, but he must have, because some indeterminate amount of time later, he heard a soft knock at the door. “Clint? Are you hungry?” 

Clint pushed himself up on one elbow, coming instantly alert in the unfamiliar surroundings. He glanced around, only half realizing his dagger was in his hand before his mind caught up with his ears.

But how was he supposed to have expected Coulson calling him by his first name?

Shaking his head, he sat up and returned the knife to its sheath, crossing the floor to pull the door open. “Coulson?”

He was greeted to the truly bizarre spectacle of Coulson standing barefoot with a dishtowel slung over his shoulder and a trace of flour on his fingers--and across his nose. “Hello,” Coulson said, giving him a small smile. “Did you have a nice nap?” 

“Are you _cooking_?” Clint asked, blinking again, not sure he wasn’t still asleep.

Coulson blinked. “Yes.” 

“Sorry, right, obvious question,” Clint replied, a grin hovering about his lips. He couldn’t help it. The thought of Coulson doing something so sweetly _domestic_ had simply never occurred to him before. “What’re you making?”

“Stew,” Coulson said, shrugging. “Nothing fancy. Though I did make biscuits.” He grinned, suddenly, the expression abrupt and genuine and completely unexpected. “Garlic biscuits.” 

Clint felt his own grin deepen in answer to Coulson’s, which was unexpectedly and undeniably _adorable_. Somehow it made the seasoned agent look like an excited little boy. “That sounds really good,” he offered, following Coulson back toward the kitchen. “You’ll have to let me return the favor, next time.”

“No arguments here,” Coulson agreed. “I don’t have much in the way of beverages,” he added, sounding apologetic. “I barely had enough to scrape together the meal. We’ll need to do some grocery shopping soon, I think. You can go if you want, and pick out things for your favorite meals.” 

“I...okay,” Clint replied, wondering if Fury’d had any idea this was how they’d be spending their suspension. This felt a hell of a lot more like time _off_ than a punishment. “So...what happens now?” he asked. He wasn’t usually one to push about the future, preferring to just ride out good times when they happened, but...there was too much under the surface to trust this.

“Now, we get bowls out of the cabinet and eat dinner,” Coulson said, moving to the cupboard and grabbing a couple ceramic dishes. He handed one to Clint, then picked a ladle out of a jar on the counter and dipped it into the stew. 

“Coulson, you know what I meant,” Clint replied, though he took the bowl, inhaling the rich smell of the stew. His stomach growled.

“Well,” the agent said thoughtfully, “you could start by calling me Phil.” 

“I’m not sure I can,” Clint replied, trying to imagine the man in front of him as anything but “Coulson.” Granted, it was somewhat easier now that he wasn’t wearing a suit, but... “Look, they’re not going to let you go for good because I messed up. What do I have to do to make sure they take you back?”

“The goal is to get them to take us _both_ back,” Coulson said, handing him the filled bowl and taking the empty away from him. 

“I’m a lost cause, we both know that,” Clint said, trying to make his voice light, easy. “Always have been.”

“If I can’t change that, then I am, too,” Coulson said, handing him a spoon. He set his bowl on the counter and picked up a pot holder, moving to the oven. 

Clint set his own bowl down, appetite gone. Life had never been fair to him, true enough, but this seemed particularly cruel. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fuck up your life.”

Coulson glanced up at him, and his expression was amused. “You think so little of me, Clint?” he said lightly. 

“Thought I was thinking little of myself,” Clint returned with a wry smile. Oh, Coulson would try, he was sure. Maybe he should just take off...surely Fury’d take him back if Clint wasn’t an issue, wouldn’t he?

“And this is the problem,” Coulson said, nodding to himself as he pulled out a tray of biscuits. He set them on the stovetop and set the pot holder down on the counter, then turned to pull out two small plates. “You don’t trust me. At this point, you don’t even trust me to help you _learn_ to trust me. But that isn’t your fault. I haven’t given you good reason to, yet. And that was my failing, not yours.” 

“I trust you,” Clint countered, frowning as he watched Coulson move so calmly around the kitchen. And he did. Far as he trusted anyone, anyway.

“You don’t,” Coulson said, picking up a spatula and sliding a couple biscuits onto each plate. “If you did, you wouldn’t have taken that shot.” 

“That didn’t have anything to do with trust, it was...” Clint clenched his jaw again, forcing himself to take a deep breath, to center himself. Getting angry about this all over again wasn’t going to solve it. “I just expected a different call.”

“I know,” Coulson said, holding out the plate; when Clint didn’t take it, he set it down on the counter in front of him. “Which means you were trying to do my job as well as yours. It was my job to survey the situation, assess the risks, and make the calls. Your job was to hit what you were aiming at when I told you to shoot. You took on my job as well as yours by making that call yourself and taking the shot.” 

Clint opened his mouth, then closed it again. Hard to argue the truth, especially when it was said so matter-of-factly. “Don’t see how that’s your fault,” he muttered, at last.

“I’m not saying you’re completely blameless,” Coulson said, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Only that if you trusted me the way you need to be able to, you wouldn’t have even considered shooting until I gave the word. You would trust my handle on the situation to the point that firing before I gave you the word would never have been an option. I haven’t established that level of trust with you. _That_ is my failing.” 

“So we gonna what...have me fall backwards and you catch me until it’s all better?” Clint asked, raising an eyebrow. Because the kind of trust Coulson was talking about...he didn’t know if he had that in him.

And if he didn’t, it’d cost them both their jobs.

Coulson smiled again, and damn, Clint could get used to that smile. “Not exactly,” he said. “But we’ll work on it together. For now, though, let’s eat. Do you want to watch a movie? I have a subscription to Netflix.” 

“You want to...watch a movie?” Clint shrugged. Why the hell not, right? Might as well enjoy themselves while the ship sank. “Got anything in mind?” he asked, this time taking the dishes Coulson held out to him. He didn’t think this was going to work, but he might as well go along with it for now. And try to figure out what the hell he was going to do next, when his only real skills involved killing people who didn’t know he was there.

“Something funny,” Coulson said after a moment’s thought. “I could use something to laugh at about right now.” 

“I could sing for you,” Clint offered with a wink, settling down beside Coulson on the couch, watching him play with the remotes until the menu came up.

“What would that accomplish?” Coulson asked. 

“It would make you laugh,” Clint explained, just keeping from rolling his eyes. 

“I doubt that,” Coulson said. “Word on the street is you’re a good singer.” 

Clint shifted his weight, feeling uncomfortable. There’d been a few drunken karaoke nights, with some of the other agents...apparently everyone hadn’t been as far gone as he’d thought. “I make faces,” he said, shrugging. “How about Men in Black?” he added, turning back to the TV. “I bet you’ve been jealous of that flashy thing for years...”

Coulson smiled. “I’ve actually never seen it,” he admitted. 

“Seriously?” Clint grinned, momentary discomfort forgotten in delight at the thought of watching Coulson see K for the first time. “Oh, man, then we _have_ to.”

Coulson agreed, and they settled in to watch. And as Clint predicted, his handler was, in fact, delighted by the dour secret agent. When K made his joke about the FBI having no sense of humor, Coulson laughed so hard he snorted, shoulders hunching in and shaking as he covered his mouth against further sounds. Clint found himself more interested in watching the Coulson than he was in watching the movie, though he did so subtly--the last thing he wanted at this point was for Coulson to start to think he was some kind of creepy stalker, especially since he was staying in his house. 

After the movie, they each got refills on their soup, then returned to the couch to watch another. This time, Coulson chose one Clint had never heard of called _Noises Off!_ , which turned out to be an incredibly funny movie about a play and the actors involved in producing it. Clint found himself laughing out loud, something he almost never did, and in spite of everything, he began to feel a little better. 

After that, they decided to shift to a more action-packed movie. Clint chose _Independence Day_ , which Coulson assured him was a favorite of his. But when Clint turned to make a comment about the dogfight scene, Coulson was asleep, head resting against the side of the couch and arms wrapped around his middle. 

Clint watched him for a second, thinking absurdly of how much _softer_ Coulson looked asleep. It impressed him, that the other man trusted him enough here in his house to just...fall asleep, watching movies. To leave himself at Clint’s mercy.

That he did it so easily brought the same squirming discomfort under Clint’s skin, the feeling he had to move or he’d explode. He sighed, standing to clear away their dinner dishes, washing what little mess Coulson had left.

He had to learn to trust. That was a laugh. Trusting, leaving yourself open...it was dangerous. You never knew when someone was going to turn on you...when it would turn out they’d been playing the other side from the start. Sure, he didn’t get that vibe from Coulson, but there’d been _plenty_ of times he hadn’t seen it coming before.

And even if Coulson was worth it, even if he wasn’t going to do a runner, or turn out to be a double agent, or any of a thousand things that could go wrong...how the hell was Clint supposed to break himself open enough to really believe it?

“We’re both screwed,” he murmured, setting the last plate in the drainer. He headed back to the living area, grabbing the remote and pausing the movie. “Sir?” he murmured, gently shaking Coulson’s arm. “Coulson?”

Coulson jerked, opening his eyes and blinking blearily. “Mm?” He looked up and saw Clint, then looked back at the screen, and grinned sheepishly. “Fell asleep?” he slurred, stretching. 

“Can’t blame you,” Clint replied, trying not to grin back and not really managing it. “Seen one alien invasion, seen ‘em all, right?”

“Mm.” Coulson chuckled, then sat up and looked at the coffee table. “Wh--did you do the dishes?” he asked, sounding surprised. 

“Yeah,” Clint replied, shrugging. “Put the leftovers away, too...there’s probably another couple meals out of it, if we’re careful.”

“We don’t need to be careful,” Coulson pointed out. “We’re still on payroll. But thank you. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Clint replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh...didn’t mean to wake you very much, just...thought you might not want to sleep on the couch. Comfortable as it looks.”

Coulson shrugged. “It’s not bad,” he said. “I’ve slept out here before. But if I’d slept like that I would have had a crick, so thanks.” He nodded to himself, then turned to Clint. “I’m going to get to bed,” he said. “Tomorrow...well. Tomorrow we can talk. All right?” 

“Oh goodie.” Clint smiled wryly, but nodded, deciding he really, _really_ wasn’t looking forward to that. “Sure you don’t want to lock me in my room, make sure I don’t run away into the night?”

Coulson looked surprised. “Clint, no one’s forcing you to stay,” he said softly. “If you want to leave, you can. But I hope you don’t,” he added, voice full of simple honesty. 

Well damn. That was better than any locked door. “I...yeah, sorry, bad joke,” Clint replied, offering him a half smile. “Thanks for letting me stay here.”

“Of course,” Coulson nodded, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder gently. “Good night, Clint.” With that, he smiled and walked down the hall, disappearing into the master bedroom. 

“Night, Phil,” Clint murmured, under his breath, before heading back to the guest room, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he went. Time to sleep, and let tomorrow worry about tomorrow.

* * *

Clint awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs, and blinked, pushing himself up out of bed. He dressed quickly, used the bathroom, then padded into the kitchen, blinking the sleep from his eyes. 

Coulson-- _Phil_ , might as well give in to--was humming to himself in the kitchen, using a spatula to flip pancakes; a plate of cooked bacon sat on the counter, and next to it, a platter of scrambled eggs with cheese. Clint blinked, wondering if Phil always took this much trouble to prepare his meals. He would have pictured him as a ‘spaghettios out of a can’ kind of guy, but he was turning out to be a regular Martha Stewart. 

And no one should be that cheerful at eight in the morning--and before coffee. 

Speaking of which, his nose hadn’t led him astray. A fresh pot was just finishing its drip and he moved toward it, grunting a good morning to Phil as he reached for a mug. Coherency could wait until after caffeine. He was always wrecked the day or so after an op, and this last one had ended particularly badly. He’d prefer to go back to sleep for a week, but barring that, caffeine was an absolute necessity. 

Phil watched him with amusement but remained blessedly silent, setting an empty plate and a fork in front of him. He turned off the stove and set the skillet aside, before moving around the breakfast bar and pulling out one of the stools. 

“Good morning,” he ventured, after Clint had worked his way through half a cup of coffee. 

“Mmph,” Clint replied, nodding at him, starting to feel almost awake. “You always get up this early?”

“Usually between five thirty and six,” Phil said, shrugging. “I slept in this morning.” 

“Masochist,” Clint observed, shaking his head. His own sleep was usually disturbed, dreams waking him in the night, keeping him from true rest. But that was no reason not to tease Phil. “Thought it was my turn to cook.”

“You can cook lunch,” Phil said. “I didn’t want to wait. We have a lot to talk about today.” 

“Ugh,” Clint sighed, downing the rest of his cup. Ungodly hour of the morning and he’d get to start baring his soul. Lovely. “You’re not even going to wait until after breakfast?”

“I didn’t say that,” Phil said quietly. “Eat. We’ll talk after.” 

Clint sighed, poking at a piece of bacon, and shook his head. “No...no point in putting it off.” He took a deep breath, raising his head to meet Phil’s eyes. “Okay. So I have trust issues. Got any ideas to help?”

Phil smiled gently. “Yes,” he said simply. 

“Okay. Then we’re set.” Clint stabbed his pancakes, wishing he was in a better mood to eat. Everything looked incredible. “Am I gonna have to talk about my childhood?”

“Only if you want to,” Phil said, shrugging. 

“I really, _really_ don’t,” Clint replied, applying himself to his meal. Phil looked even more approachable this morning, the sweater traded out for an actual, honest to God tshirt. And yet he still managed to make Clint feel underdressed in sweatpants and an old, worn hoodie.

“Then don’t,” Phil said lightly, taking a bit of scrambled eggs. There was a moment of silence, while the two ate, before Phil said, “We should get some apples later. They ought to be good right now.” 

“Yeah?” Clint asked, raising an eyebrow. This was utterly surreal. Did _nothing_ bother Phil? Ever? 

“The orchards are blooming,” Phil said, shrugging. “We could go upstate and visit one if you want. I know one that has amazing apple cinnamon ice cream.” 

“Okay, okay, let’s talk about it,” Clint said, dropping his fork. This was way, way worse than trying to field uncomfortable questions. He’d never been a fan of elephants in the room. “What are your ideas? What are we doing? How do we get our damn lives back?”

Phil looked surprised. “So that’s a no on the ice cream, then?” 

“Dammit, Coulson...” Clint groaned. He couldn’t even tell if Phil was _trying_ to torture him or not.

Phil sighed, but rose to his feet and moved forward until he was standing directly in front of Clint. “You don’t trust anyone,” he said quietly. “You’ve never had any reason to; no one in your life has ever stuck around and proven themselves worthy of it. But that’s not the real problem, Clint.” 

“No?” Clint asked, hating the choked sound of his own voice, the way his throat thickened and his muscles tensed at Phil’s words. At Phil not only saying them, but _knowing_ they were true.

“No,” Phil said, voice excruciatingly gentle. He reached up and, to Clint’s shock, actually stroked Clint’s hair. “The problem is you’re too afraid to give yourself what you really want. You don’t want to be in control. You’ve had to be for so long you don’t even know how to want anything else, but in your heart of hearts, what you really want--what you _need_ \--is someone who can take that from you. Someone who can be in charge and make you feel safe and protected.” 

Clint’s breath caught in his throat, his chest _aching_ with Phil’s words, his entire body going cold, then flaming hot. “I... _what_?” he managed, thinking this was ridiculous, he should pull away, should push Phil _out_ of the way, get some air, tell him that was a crock, that he didn’t know what he was talking about, anything...anything but stand there and _want_ what he was being told so badly it scared him. “You’re full of shit,” he muttered, weakly.

“Am I?” Phil murmured, stepping closer, eyes gentle. 

“Yeah,” Clint replied, backing up until the breakfast bar dug into his back, trying to pull up a scoff, a joke, _anything_ to cut the tension suddenly sparking between them. “Why would I...that’s messed up, I wouldn’t...”

Phil’s hand suddenly fisted in the short hair at the nape of Clint’s neck, gripping tightly, and his eyes hardened, voice dropping to a quiet commanding tone: “ _Wouldn’t you_?” 

Clint’s knees turned to water and he dropped to them, a surge of something more powerful than want, more powerful than arousal, more powerful than anything he’d ever known blasting through him, leaving him weak and shaking. “Yes, sir,” he heard himself say, from far away, noting just as distantly that he’d at some point gone hard as a rock, his cock tenting his sweatpants.

Phil’s eyes softened again, and he sighed, reaching down to pull Clint to his feet. “Come on,” he murmured, gently guiding the still-shaking archer toward the couch and easing him down onto it. Then, settling down beside him, he smiled again, opening his arms. 

Clint ached with the need to burrow into them, to press against Phil, and it scared him shitless. He grabbed a small throw pillow from the couch, wrapping himself around it, and tried to stop shaking. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Phil sighed, lowering his arms, and held up his hands in a non-threatening gesture. “It’s okay, Clint,” he said softly. “It’s okay. I promise...I won’t hurt you. Ever.” 

“Heard that before,” Clint muttered, but relaxed, slightly, starting to regain control of himself. He let out an explosive sigh, rubbing the back of his head where Phil had tugged at his hair, made him feel...whatever that had been. “What was that? Some kind of screwy Vulcan death-grip?”

Phil chuckled, but Clint thought he saw the other man’s ears go faintly pink. “Something like that,” he agreed, looking sheepish. “Um. This part is a little embarrassing. Clint...how familiar are you with dominant-subordinate relationships?” 

Clint narrowed his eyes, not sure he liked where this was going. Not that everyone hadn’t been convinced there was something freaky going on inside the tailored suits, but...wow. “You mean like...s&m, bondage, whips and chains, that kind of thing?”

“Sort of,” Phil agreed. “But not exactly. I mean, it doesn’t always...go that far. It’s a little bit complicated, but I’d ask that you hear me out.” 

“Will it explain what just happened?” Clint asked, hugging the pillow a little closer, shivering again.

“Yes.” 

“Then...shoot,” Clint said, shrugging. This day could hardly get any weirder. 

Or so he thought. 

* * *

“Dominant and subordinate personalities--doms and subs--aren’t often what everyone assumes,” Phil said softly, voice and eyes distant. “We get a bit of a bad rap with movies and general media, and even with some pornography. If that’s been your only exposure to the dom/sub lifestyle, then chances are your views are a little bit...skewed. I’d ask that you set aside what you think you know for the moment. 

“Most people assume that dominants--doms--are people who thrive on being in charge, or get off on giving orders. It’s not true. At least, it’s not that simple. Doms do tend to take charge, yes, but what they offer is safety: a place for their subordinate counterpart to relinquish all control and know they are in good hands. A good dom is actually focused on service; in a lot of ways, a good dom is what some might consider a sub. 

“A sub, on the other hand, is someone who wants to give up control of something to someone else, to experience complete helplessness in an environment of complete and total safety. In a way, what a sub truly wants is to explore what he is most afraid of--the loss of control--by letting himself lose control within a set of very specific parameters. It’s like walking into the abyss with a lifeline tied around your waist. You’re afraid, but you know if things get bad, you’ll tug on that lifeline and someone will be on the other side to pull you back. 

“That’s what is the most confusing for people who aren’t intimately familiar with true sub-dom relationships. The sub is really the one in control, because the sub sets up the guidelines for whatever is going to be explored. It doesn’t necessarily have to be sexual, though I will admit it often is. But a sub who was never really allowed to act like a child might want to play with toy trucks and have his dom bring him a snack or tuck him in for a nap, so he could experience the sort of freedom a child would experience--freedom from adulthood’s basic responsibilities like feeding and caring for himself. 

“The healthiest of these types of relationships, however, are based around one simple fact: the sub is in control. If a sub says a game or scenario stops, it stops immediately. The sub is the one who sets up the guidelines, the limits, the safeword; the dom is there to obey them. While the dom might appear ‘bossy,’ it is all going to be within the parameters of the sub’s limits.

“In your case, Clint, what you are missing is trust. You’ve never gotten to experience it. So the game for you is going to be letting yourself trust--blindly--that I am trustworthy. If you decide we need to stop whatever it is we are doing, we stop. Immediately. As you come to trust that I will always stop when you need me to, you can begin to explore more possibilities--challenge yourself. Push yourself. Let yourself actually believe that I mean what I say: I will always stop when you say when.” 

Clint stared at Phil, some portion of his brain taking all the information and carefully logging it to look at later. The rest was too busy trying to catch up with itself to function. And catching over and over on the same snag. “You’re saying...you think _I’m_ a _sub_?”

Phil looked surprised for a moment, then chuckled, softly. “Yes, Clint,” he said. “I do.” 

“Why?” Clint asked, eyes narrowing.

“Because you are,” Phil said, shrugging. “I’m sorry, I wish I had a better explanation, but...I’ve been doing this for years. I’ve learned to recognize the signs.” 

“Even if I was,” Clint replied, slowly, admitting if only to himself that Phil _might_ have a point--at least in that he’d never willingly given up control to anyone, “why do you think you and I would...do something about it?”

“We won’t unless you want to,” Phil said softly. “But Clint...I guarantee you that if what you want is to be able to trust someone--and if you decide that someone is me--this is going to be the fastest and most thorough way to give you what you’ve always wanted.” 

“What about you?” Clint asked, trying to ignore how disgustingly tempted he was by this completely ridiculous offer. Phil was hardly the first mentor who’d brought out the desire for something like this in him, even if he’d never had a name for it before, and he’d long ago learned where _that_ led. “Why would you want to saddle yourself with me? What you’re talking about sounds sexual...intimate...do you even see me that way?”

“Yes,” Phil said. 

“Oh.” Clint blinked, feeling himself flush. He honestly hadn’t expected that. “Really?”

“Yes,” Phil said again, giving him that same small, sweet smile. “I’m gay, Clint, and you’re gorgeous, but it’s more than that. I like you. You’re...annoying as hell, I’ll grant you, and there are definitely days I’d like to toss you out a window, but...I like you.” He shrugged. “But beyond that, Clint, I care about you as a person. I’m your handler; you’re my agent. I’m a dom, so I have a degree of possessive instinct about me. It wouldn’t matter to me if you never wanted to be anything more than agent and handler. I would still want to do this for you--be this for you--if it would help you.” 

Clint let out a long sigh, nodding slowly as he tried to work this all out. So apparently his hopeless attraction wasn’t so hopeless after all. He’d never really considered it, not when Phil was his handler, unobtainable in his pressed suits and to all appearances disinterested, anyway. But he’d be lying to himself if he tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed Phil, hadn’t wondered what lay _under_ the suits.

And so Phil was attracted to him, too. And moreover, wanted to play kinky sex games for the good of their partnership. The fact that he probably had a very sound point really didn’t factor in that much, at least not as far as Clint’s cock was concerned.

And they did have all this time off...

He glanced at Phil, as he thought. Did Fury know this was Phil’s plan? Maybe. Clint couldn’t really bring himself to care, if he did. Fury knew everything. And if it got them both back in the field, so much the better.

“I’d want to be more,” he said, at last, trying to find some measure of calm within him when he felt like he might fly apart any moment, trying to consider every angle, to chase them all down and see where they might lead. But he knew that much, at least. “Christ, Phil, you know you’re hot shit.”

Phil slumped--actually _slumped_ \--looking relieved as he smiled at the younger man. “I’m about ten years your senior,” he said, shaking his head. “But I appreciate the sentiment. You don’t have to decide this right now, Clint. You don’t even have to decide today. And even if you do...baby steps. If all you want to do today is go get ice cream and watch movies, that’s all we have to do. It’s truly up to you.” 

“Dangerous leaving it up to me,” Clint pointed out, even as he started to relax from the tight ball he’d curled himself into, some of the desperate chatter of his thoughts gradually quieting down once more. “We’ll end up watching Disney’s Robin Hood a hundred and fifty times in a row.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Phil said, not a hint of mocking or ridicule in his tone. “I think I own that one. If not, there’s a Best Buy about three blocks away.” 

Clint blinked at him. “You’re...seriously going to let me take over your TV to watch a Disney movie? You don’t...have to watch it, too, or anything,” he added, quickly, feeling his cheeks flush. “Or...you had a lot on your queue, we could...”

Phil stood up, moving toward his DVD shelf. “I will warn you, though,” he said, as though Clint had never spoken up at all, “I am liable to start singing along. And unlike you, I can’t carry much of a tune.” 

“I think I can handle that,” Clint replied, feeling his smile turn a bit shy as Phil pulled the DVD down from the shelf. He was really...wow. Clint would have to watch the kind of suggestions he made, if Phil was actually going to _take him up_ on them.

“Good. All right. Robin Hood. Did you get enough for breakfast? There is still plenty.” 

“Yeah...yeah, actually, that sounds good,” Clint agree, pushing himself up, realizing he was starving. “Did you want more?”

“I could go for some more pancakes,” Phil said, putting the DVD into the player. “In fact, just bring everything to the coffee table. We can pick away at it.” 

Clint did as he was told, collecting all the breakfast things together and covering the coffee table in plates, grabbing another mug of coffee for each of them. He handed one to Phil, trying not to shiver when their fingers brushed and failing.

Phil smiled warmly at him, taking a sip of coffee before moving over to the couch and flopping down. He picked up a pancake and folded it in two, taking a bite out of it. “Mmm,” he said, as he pointed the remote at the screen. “Ready?” he mumbled around his mouthful. 

Clint laughed, softly, nodding. Jeans and eating with his fingers...Phil Coulson really was a whole different man outside the office. He curled himself back in the corner of the couch, sipping his own coffee as the movie started. In moments he’d forgotten everything else, lost in the story of the handsome, dashing archer who stole from the rich and gave to the poor and made life generally better for everyone he met. Oh yeah, there was probably some Freudian shit going on there, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

It wasn’t until the end credits were rolling that he even remembered Phil was in the room. He blushed, glancing over at the older man, but Phil was just smiling, watching as the credits rolled. He stretched, then hopped to his feet, beginning to gather the empty breakfast dishes. “I always had a crush on Robin when I was a kid,” he remarked. 

“I always wanted to be him,” Clint admitted, scrubbing a hand back over his hair, knowing his face was still red. Had he really sung along to every song? He thought he probably had. “You’d never guess, right?”

“You’ve come closer than most kids ever will,” Phil said, grinning as he moved into the kitchen. “Though to be honest, I think you’re a better shot than Robin.” 

“He’s a fox, he’s working at a handicap,” Clint pointed out, but smiled. He knew he was about the best shot out there--there might be a few to rival him, but not many, not on a good day.

“Hm. Maybe.” Phil turned on the sink, rinsing the dishes, then left them sitting to soak as he came back out of the kitchen. He sat back down on the couch beside Clint. “So. Again?” 

“We don’t have to,” Clint replied, shaking his head, though he knew he could and quite happily. But he wouldn’t make Phil humor his five-year-old self. “Your turn to pick something.”

“Okay,” Phil said happily, pushing play from the Robin Hood menu screen and settling back in again, humming along softly with the opening credit whistling. 

Clint glanced over him at him once, then grinned and slid off the couch, leaning back against it, once more entranced by the movie, not even noticing when he leaned in against Phil’s leg.

When the movie reached its conclusion for a second time, he realized he’d arranged himself so he was actually sitting between Phil’s legs, resting his head against Phil’s knee with one arm curled around his calf, fingers resting on his bare ankle. Phil’s fingers were in his hair, stroking gently. 

He thought he should be embarrassed, should want to pull away and apologize. But Phil didn’t seem to mind, and Clint _really_ didn’t want to move. So he didn’t, just turned his head slightly and let out a soft sigh.

Phil wordlessly started the movie again, giving Clint an excuse to stay exactly as he was. Phil’s fingers never stopped working, stroking his hair, his scalp, his neck. Clint found this time, he barely paid attention to the movie, focused instead on the strange feeling in his chest as he sat and clung to Phil Coulson’s leg. It was like something was unraveling; some huge, complicated tangle of tension that he’d carried so long he didn’t even know it was there. And bit by bit, it was being worked loose, loops pulled free and smoothed straight as old hurts melted under Phil’s gentle touches. When the movie drew to its third conclusion, Clint was literally hugging Phil’s calf, face pressed against the inside of his knee, shaking ever so slightly. 

Phil reached down, touching his shoulder gently. “Clint,” he whispered. 

Clint swallowed, trying to still the shudders passing through him and not managing to. “Wh-what’s happening to me?” he whispered, not sure Phil could understand the words, low and muffled as they were. But he didn’t _do_ this. Even after a bad op...he didn’t fall apart. He drank, he exercised, sometimes after a really bad one he’d pick a fight in a bar...but he never did this. So why now?

Phil gently extracted himself from Clint’s grip, and for a moment, Clint panicked. But it passed swiftly, as Phil slid off the couch and down beside him, substituting his leg for his body as he held out his arms and again offered his embrace. 

This time Clint took it, sliding in against the other man, hiding his face in his shoulder, letting the shaking increase as he dropped part of the tight hold he had on himself. “Phil...”

“Clint,” Phil whispered, wrapping him up in a wonderfully tight embrace. He angled his body toward Clint’s, adjusting their legs so that Clint’s were draped over Phil’s, leaving him sitting curled up between them. He wrapped one strong arm (had Phil always been this strong...? Had he just not noticed beneath all the tailored suits?) around Clint’s waist, and the other around his shoulders. One of his big hands cupped the back of Clint’s head, still stroking his hair, and Clint thought he felt the press of lips against the top of his head as Phil began to rock him ever so gently. 

And Clint let him. He knew he should be embarrassed, should be pulling away, should just go take a shower and get himself together and not let anyone, much less his _boss_ , see him like this. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“Let it happen,” Phil murmured. “I know it’s scary, Clint. But just let it happen. Let yourself feel it.” 

“Feel _what_?” Clint asked, his voice all too strained for his own comfort.

“Vulnerable,” Phil responded. “Open. Whatever it is you need to feel. Whatever that little boy inside you who wanted to watch Robin Hood three times needs to feel. Let it happen.” 

Clint tried. He did try, for the space of a few minutes, to let himself just _be_. But this wasn’t an op, he wasn’t zeroed in on a target and he couldn’t...he coudn’t quiet his body, or his mind. He felt himself getting gradually tenser and tenser in Phil’s hold, his whole body poised on the edge of explosion, shaking with suppressed energy. Shaking with the need to run.

Phil didn’t speak, but after a moment, his fingers turned more playful, and he scruffed Clint’s hair lightly before kissing his brow and drawing away. “Okay, sorry--I’m too old to sit on the floor that long,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and moving to the DVD player. He popped the DVD out and replaced it in its box, then moved into the kitchen, whistling the opening credits song lightly, and began to wash their breakfast dishes. 

Clint slumped, the tight tension that’d held him taught as a bowstring all escaping at once. He laid his head back against the couch, taking deep breaths, trying not to pant. Shit. It felt like he’d just run some sort of race...what the hell was wrong with him?

He spent a few long moments just sitting where he was, before pushing himself to his feet, trying to act something near to normal as he crossed into the kitchen. “You mind if I go for a run?” he asked, knowing he was avoiding most of what they should be dealing with and not really giving a shit. He needed time. Time to let his body move and his brain turn off.

“Go for it,” Phil said, waving a hand. “And if you don’t mind, there’s a 7-11 on the corner; on your way back, could you grab some milk?” 

Clint let out an internal sigh of relief and nodded. “Sure. Give me a call if you think of anything else?” Felt a little weird, being so domestic with Agent Coulson, but he could get past that. It was practically normal, after whatever the hell had just gone down.

“Sure thing. We’ll need to do an actual grocery store run soon, but I think milk will do for now. I can whip up enough things with that.” He turned to Clint and gave him a warm smile, then returned his attention to the dishes. 

And Clint, God help him, took the opportunity to run. Not for good, not as far as he wanted, but still away from everything, if only for an hour or two.

* * *

Phil waited until he heard the door click shut before he sighed, slumping over the countertop, and allowed his carefully-controlled demeanor to slip a bit. 

Shit. That had been...well. Terrifying, honestly. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this for someone, but Clint Barton was proving to be a tougher nut to crack than most. Not that he hadn’t expected that--Clint had _always_ been a step above the pack--but it was scary, because there were so very many ways this could go pear-shaped on him, and if it did, he risked doing irreparable harm. Clint was damaged-- _very_ damaged--but it wasn’t beyond repair. Not yet. 

But if Phil didn’t tread very carefully, he could easily make it so. 

He sighed, closing his eyes, wet fingers gripping the edge of the sink. He could do this. He _had_ to do this. And if he could have somehow reached into the past and strangled everyone who’d ever abused Clint’s trust, or made him feel worthless, or told him he was fucked up and useless, he would do that, too. The pain in his eyes, barely hidden beneath the veneer of snark and smartassery, was a physical pain for Phil, and he wanted nothing more than to take it away, bear it himself and let Clint live free from care forever. 

He shook his head, opening his eyes again and getting back to work on the few remaining dishes. It didn’t work that way, of course. It wasn’t that simple. He could never rescue Clint from himself; there would always be pain that Clint would have to bear. But if Phil could at least get him to trust in him--and in himself--well, maybe they could heal some of it. And they could bear the rest together. 

He steadied himself again, closing his eyes and finding the cool, confident, devoted core of himself that was his dom side--the side that always knew what to do, how to take care of people. It was that side of him that told him to be patient; that letting Clint run, letting him go, was the thing to do, even when the rest of him wanted nothing more than to hold on tighter. He smirked slightly, thinking of that old adage about letting go of the things you love and seeing if they returned to you. He wasn’t in love with Clint Barton, but he was walking down a dangerous path if he didn’t want to end up that way.

And the thing was, he didn’t even _want_ to turn back. 

This had better work, he thought, as he put the clean dishes into the drainer. Because if it didn’t, he was as screwed as Clint. Whatever this thing was going to be, they were in it together now. 

For better or for worse. 

* * *

Clint wasn’t sure how long he ran, how long he let the pavement pass beneath his feet, felt his body working and kept his mind blank, but by the time he returned to the apartment--with milk and a couple packets of the Little Debbie donuts Phil couldn’t seem to get enough of--he felt more at peace with himself.

A peace guaranteed to be short lived, but he’d take it.

He pushed open the door, plucking his sweat soaked tank top away from his chest. He grinned, seeing Phil sitting sideways on the couch, a book in his lap, a highlighter caught between his teeth as he frowned at it. It wasn’t the highlighter, or the dark blue sweater pushed up to his elbows that made Clint smile, though. It was the pair of slim reading glasses perched on his nose. 

“Hey,” he said, as he headed into the living area, dropping the donuts in Phil’s lap. “Got you something.”

Phil picked up the package, then grinned, taking off the glasses and nodding up at him. “Thanks,” he said. “Good run?” 

Clint nodded, running a hand back through his damp hair, deciding Phil’s grin had to be the most adorable thing he’d ever seen...and how dangerous a thought was that? “Yeah,” he said, dropping the other packet of donuts on the table. “Think I need a shower now, though.”

“Please,” Phil said seriously, “don’t let me stop you.” 

Clint laughed, tugging his tank top off to dry himself off a bit. “Don’t want me dripping on the hardwood?” he teased, resisting the urge to shake his head like wet dog.

“Barton. Shower. _Please_.” 

“Yes, sir,” Clint replied with a lazy salute, laughing to himself as he put the milk away and headed off to the bathroom. He showered quickly, toweling off and changing into a clean t-shirt and track pants, before heading back to the living room.

He paused, just inside the hallway, watching. Phil was still reading, stopping every now and then to jot a note down on the pad beside him on the coffee table, or to highlight something in the book. A small frown line had appeared between his eyebrows and it made Clint want to smooth it away.

After a few seconds, Phil said, without even glancing up, “It’s rude to stare, you know.” 

“It’s rude to interrupt someone working, too,” Clint pointed out, lips curving into a smile. “So I’m kinda fucked either way here.”

“Mm. I suppose if you’re wanting my attention, then yes,” Phil said, looking up and closing his book, that now-familiar smile crinkling his eyes again. “Feel better?” And though he could have just been referencing the shower, Clint got the impression the question was meant to be more all-encompassing than that. 

“Yeah, I think so,” Clint admitted, crossing over to the couch and curling up in the space left at Phil’s feet, his back to the armrest as he faced the other man. “Cleared my head a little.”

“Good,” Phil said, nodding once as he set the book aside. He turned back to Clint and smiled. “I ordered a pizza,” he admitted after a second. “I didn’t feel like cooking again.” 

“I don’t mind it,” Clint offered, picking at a loose thread on the pillow he’d once again put in his lap. “Cooking, I mean. We go shopping tomorrow and I’ll take over...”

“We can trade off,” Phil said decisively. “I enjoy it now and then. But this afternoon I sort of felt like being lazy. So I sat on my ass while you ran the length of Manhattan and back,” he added, gently teasing. 

“Twice,” Clint agreed with a smirk, dropping the pillow again. “For a warm-up.”

“Hm.” Phil nudged him with his foot, then folded his arms over his abdomen. “So,” he said. “What now?” 

“Got me,” Clint replied, adjusting himself on the couch, one leg shaking slightly with nervous energy. “We did my ridiculous thing this morning...isn’t it your turn?”

“Your thing was fun,” Phil argued lightly. “But I wouldn’t say no to getting to pick the next Disney movie. Did you ever see Mulan?” 

“Uh...” Clint hesitated. Because yes, he had. He’d seen all the Disney Musicals. But admitting to seeing any of them that’d come out after he’d turned about twelve felt...wrong. Even after watching Robin Hood three times in a row.

Phil seemed to take his hesitation another way, though; his eyes lit up, and he grinned. “Oh, you’ll love it!” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch and moving back to the cabinet that held his DVDs. He opened it and tugged out a collector’s edition, then paused. “Oh--The Emperor’s New Groove is good, too. Not as much music--some but not as much--but it’s really funny. What do you think? Make it a double feature?” 

“Do you have _all_ the Disney movies?” Clint asked, eyes narrowing slightly. He hadn’t had a chance to do a marathon in...years. Maybe Phil wouldn’t laugh at him wanting to, not when he had them all himself...

“Well, most of them,” Phil said, frowning as he opened the cabinets wider and let Clint take a look. “Some of the weirder ones, no, but most of them I do. I like them,” he added, shrugging. “They’re fun.” 

“Yeah, they are,” Clint agreed, half to himself. “Well...yeah. Double, triple, fifty movie feature...I’m good. But only if you promise to sing along, too.”

“I sang along with Robin Hood, didn’t I?” Phil said indignantly, as he opened his DVD changer and started filling it with Disney movies. 

Clint conceded that he had--so softly as to be nearly inaudible, but he had. “You got any beer?” he added, as Phil came back to the couch.

“No,” Phil said, “but wait here.” He vanished into the kitchen, and Clint heard the clink of glasses. When he returned a moment later, Phil was carrying two large glass cups of what could only be chocolate milk, a huge grin on his face. 

“Tell me this at least has rum in it,” Clint said, secretly hoping it didn’t. So this was totally ridiculous, spending the first day of what was supposed to be him getting his shit together watching Disney movies and drinking chocolate milk. So it made him feel like a kid. So what? Phil was right there with him on it.

“Um, no,” Phil said, looking at him like he’d grown an extra head. “Why would you ruin perfectly good Quik with rum? Be civilized, Barton.” 

“Do you ever drink?” Clint asked, accepting the glass, watching Phil sit back down, wondering for the first time what his coping mechanism, his grounding technique might be. “Or...anything?”

“Anything?” Phil asked, but before Clint could reply, there was a knock at the door. “Oh--that’s our pizza. Hold that thought.” 

A moment later, Phil had them set up with slices of what looked like meat lovers pizza, hot and steaming and absolutely mouth-watering. Phil took a bite out of his, chewed and swallowed, then smiled. “I’m sorry. You were saying?” 

“Not important,” Clint said, shaking his head. Whatever it was, it wasn’t really his business...and he and Phil were totally different people. Wouldn’t work for him, anyway. “Let’s watch.”

Phil shrugged, turning the movie on, and for the next five hours, they immersed themselves into the goofy, heartwarming, often surprisingly-funny world of Disney musicals. Phil did indeed sing, quietly--though he rocked out to Mulan’s _I’ll Make A Man Out Of You_ , which Clint found unspeakably adorable. Phil grinned sheepishly afterward, admitting he considered that his theme song, and one more little piece of Clint’s resolve melted away into nothing. 

By the time they’d finished Aladdin, they’d also polished off the pizza and two more glasses of chocolate milk, and Clint once again found himself sitting on the floor in front of the couch. This time, however, Phil had stretched himself out on the empty cushions, and the result was his head resting on the couch just behind Clint’s. In fact, if he turned his face just so, he could have kissed the man. Not that he would--but he was hyper aware of the fact that he _could_. 

Phil sighed, as the end credits rolled, and Clint glanced sideways to see a small, happy smile on the other man’s face. “What next?” the older man asked. “Lion King?” 

“Sounds good,” Clint agreed, swallowing and turning away again. “Unless you need to get to bed...”

“Got nowhere to be tomorrow,” Phil mumbled into the couch cushion. 

“That’s not stopping you from falling asleep,” Clint pointed out, smiling at the sight of Phil’s eyes drifting closed. 

“Mm, shut up,” Phil mumbled. 

“Shutting up, sir,” Clint replied, grinning to himself. He tugged the blanket off the back of the couch and covered Phil with it. Turning back to the coffee table, he picked up the book Phil had been reading earlier. _Summa Philosophica_. His eyes glazed over just trying to read the summary and he put it back down, shaking his head.

Right. Phil was interested in him _why_ again?

“Gonna put in the movie or what?” Phil mumbled without opening his eyes. 

“Oh, it’s in,” Clint replied, before launching into the opening song, certain he was butchering the lyrics, and not really caring. “See?”

Phil smiled, snuggling down further into his blanket. “Mmm. Keep singing,” he ordered. 

Clint blinked, but it was hard to resist when Phil used that voice. “Any requests?”

“Lion King,” Phil said, lifting one fist in emphasis. 

Clint chuckled, but sat back, starting The Circle of Life again, this time more seriously. Phil listened with all evidence of sleepy enjoyment, though he seemed to be drifting further asleep. Clint followed with I Just Can’t Wait To Be King, then Hakuna Matata.

And then, when he was fairly certain Phil was long asleep, he let himself slip into Can You Feel the Love Tonight?, surprised his throat stayed open through some of the lyrics. “An enchanted moment, and it sees me through. It's enough for this restless warrior just to be with you...”

Phil sighed, breathing deep and steady, and Clint closed his eyes. 

“ _And can you feel the love tonight?  
It is where we are.  
It’s enough for this wide-eyed wanderer  
That we got this far. _

_“And can you feel the love tonight?  
How it’s laid to rest?  
It’s enough to make kings and vagabonds  
believe the very best. _

_“It’s enough to make kings and vagabonds  
believe the very best. _ ”

He let his voice drift off into silence, and swallowed, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes. And when he opened them again, Phil was gazing up at him, no hint of sleep on his face. 

“Uh...that’s the last song in the movie, right?” Clint asked, his voice choked now as it hadn’t been while he’d been singing. “Gotta pick a different one...”

Phil swallowed, still just watching him, but after a second, he slowly pushed himself up and forward. He moved slowly, carefully, giving Clint every opportunity to pull away. 

Clint knew he should. He should laugh, make a joke, _move_. But he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot, staring as Phil moved closer and closer to him. Phil, who’d told him he was a dom, who told him he expected Clint to want to give up control, who had said all those things that morning, those things that’d wormed inside him, scaring him with how _true_ they were, how _badly_ he wanted what Phil had described.

Phil, who was trying to save him, trying to fix things, for both of them.

Phil, whom he cared about, whom he absolutely shouldn’t let do this, because Clint would fuck it up, he would, just like he always did, like he had every time he remembered.

Oh fuck, those were lips. Lips, and a hand on the back of his head, and the spinning, whirling, frantic thoughts all disappeared into stillness, as Phil’s mouth closed over his, as his hand gently gripping the nape of Clint’s neck.

And that was Phil kissing him, his lips moving over Clint’s in soft, gentle, worshipping kisses. Kisses that whispered _it’s okay_ and tasted like forgiveness and felt like home. Kisses that Clint absolutely could never deserve, not in this life, not with everything he’d done. Kisses that Phil was still somehow bestowing upon him. 

The tears that’d only been threatening, when he’d been singing, spilled over now and he let them, pressing in against Phil, trying not to think about it. Trying not to think about what Phil would think about it, what might happen when they finally had to pull apart, _anything_. This...this was good, and he’d just go with this and let Phil make the call for what happened next.

Phil drew away at last, a gentle sigh and a few punctuating kisses dropped on Clint’s lips, before he moved away and began trailing those same kisses up his cheeks, gently kissing away the tears he had somehow already known were there. It was only when he’d cleared Clint’s face of the salty tracks that he drew away, opening his eyes again, smiling that infinitely sweet and gentle smile. “Hey,” he whispered. 

“Hey,” Clint replied, sighing and leaning into Phil’s touch for a moment, letting himself just be. “That was...really nice,” he offered, knowing it was wholly inadequate.

Phil nodded, smile deepening. “It was,” he agreed. “Thank you for singing for me.” 

“Any time,” Clint replied, feeling his cheeks start to flush. “Glad you...yeah. Um. What happens now?” he added, the stillness of the moment gradually cracking under the buzzing of his brain, the thoughts that wouldn’t go away.

“Well,” Phil said, sitting back a bit and smiling, “I think we just got all the best bits of The Lion King. Would you like to watch Beauty and the Beast?” 

“Go from Hamlet to Stockholm Syndrome?” Clint asked, forcing himself to grin, to pull himself back together. “Sure, why not?”

“Or Little Mermaid,” Phil said thoughtfully. “Nothing like a little Electra syndrome mixed with some interspecies and underage marriage.” 

Clint laughed, grinning back at him, feeling some of the tension ease, even if he did want to kiss Phil again and wasn’t sure how. Other than just _doing_ it, which he normally would’ve, but seemed against some sort of unspoken rule in whatever was happening between them. “Snow White? Little necrophilia going on there.”

“Sleeping Beauty,” Phil said, resting his cheek on his hand. “The ultimate date-rape.” 

“And then there’s...” Clint paused, thinking desperately, but finally laughing. “I give up. Everything else in the rest of them?”

Phil grinned. “101 Dalmations,” he said. “Roger and his wife are clearly animal hoarders.” 

“And no one has parents,” Clint pointed out, smirking slightly, losing some of his amusement. “Lot of orphans, or at least dead mothers going on.”

Phil sighed, reaching out and gently stroking Clint’s hair. “I guess happy endings don’t all have happy beginnings,” he said. 

“Nice save,” Clint observed dryly, though he couldn’t keep himself from leaning into the touch. He took a long breath, before letting it out again, wishing he felt less off-balance. “Do...would you mind if we just watched Robin Hood again? Last time, I promise.”

Phil smiled, leaning forward and kissing Clint gently. “As many times as you want,” he murmured, before pushing himself out from under the blanket Clint had draped on him and moving to the DVD player. He put the movie back in, replacing the others and putting them back in the cabinet, before moving back to settle on the rug next to Clint. He dragged the blanket down and wrapped it around both of them, giving Clint a small smile. 

“You can sit on the couch,” Clint pointed out, trying not to be glad Phil was beside him...or linger on why he always seemed to end up on the floor when there was a perfectly comfortable alternative above him.

“So can you,” Phil pointed out, smiling as he leaned one shoulder against Clint’s. 

“Yeah, but I’m not the one too old for the floor,” Clint reminded him, nudging Phil’s shoulder with his own.

“I’m pretty sure the floor is appropriate for all ages,” Phil said dryly. 

“You said it, not me,” Clint pointed out, leaning his head against Phil’s shoulder when he didn’t move away.

“You’ll find, Barton, that I don’t enjoy eating my own words,” Phil said, and now he sounded almost snooty. But when Clint glanced up at him, there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. 

“I’ll get you some chocolate milk to wash them down,” Clint replied, hiding a grin. “We watching this or what?”

Phil laughed, and pushed play, before wrapping his arm around Clint and drawing him in to rest against his side. Clint felt Phil’s cheek against his hair, as the older agent pressed in close, and he thought he felt him give a happy little sigh. 

And Clint closed his eyes and let himself go with it, let himself just relax against Phil, let the familiar sounds of the movie he’d watched over and over as a kid--the one movie he’d had that was _his_ , that he could put on in the room he shared with his brother and lose himself in when everything was going to shit in the rest of the house, that had been his escape long before he’d ever held a real bow in his hands--wash over him once again. 

And if a few more tears slipped free now and then, well, Phil never said a word about the damp spot on his shirt. 

* * *

The next few days passed in a strange blur for Clint. 

When they’d finished watching Robin Hood that night, they’d sat pressed together for quite some time. At some point during the movie, their fingers had laced together, and Phil’s thumb had gently caressed Clint’s knuckles as the credits rolled. When they ended, neither of them spoke; Clint didn’t want to break whatever quiet spell had overcome them as they curled together in what could only be described as cuddling. It was weird--bizarre even--to realize he was cuddling with _Agent Coulson_ , but in a strange sort of way, it fit. Coulson was...kind and sweet and more of a big goofy kid that Clint would ever have suspected. It was strange, but somehow, it fit. 

After a time, however, they did move, wordlessly rising from their cuddle and moving silently as they cleaned up the living room. Phil folded the blanket and put it back on the couch; Clint gathered the trash from their pizza and took it out to the trash chute. They both rinsed out their cups and set them on the kitchen counter. And then, quietly, Phil turned and captured Clint’s mouth in a gentle kiss, and for a long time they stood in the kitchen, barely touching, kissing one another in a soft, exploring kind of way. 

Clint half-expected they’d end up in bed together. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made out with someone for so long _without_ it turning into anything overtly sexual. But after about ten minutes, Phil had drawn away, smiled at him, and wished him a good night. Clint had been left standing alone in the kitchen, dazed and rumpled, wondering when he was going to find his equilibrium with whatever it was that was happening here. 

The next morning, he’d managed to rise before Phil, and cooked the rest of their eggs into cheese omelets. There weren’t many other toppings--Phil had used the last of the bacon yesterday--but Clint had added chives and basil to the eggs, and toasted a few frozen bagels, and Phil had seemed appreciative and pleased by the results. 

After breakfast, they’d showered and gotten dressed, heading to the grocery store for more food. They had similar tastes, thankfully, so there weren’t any huge snafus of the culinary sort. Clint had had a moment of awkwardness at the register, wondering which of them was going to pay, but Phil had pulled out a S.H.I.E.L.D. credit card and tossed him a mischievous smirk. 

“On Fury,” he announced, giving Clint a wink, and Clint beamed back at him, thinking a Phil Coulson with an ornery streak was a dangerous thing indeed. 

They spent the second day together talking, watching more movies (some Disney), and cooking a few of their favorite dishes in the kitchen, which they subsequently froze to have later in the week (an old trick Phil’s grandmother apparently used to use). There were a few more kisses, stolen at odd moments, but they didn’t speak of them; they were what they were, and they were quiet, undemanding, and comforting. Clint decided he could get used to them. 

The next day Phil declared he was tired of sitting around the apartment, so they’d gone over to Coney Island to spend the day at the carnival. Clint felt a little strange at first, but after a bit warmed up to the idea, and even began showing off his knowledge of the rigged carnival games to Phil. By the end of the day, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who could kill a man with a paperclip was carrying a large purple stuffed t-rex, courtesy of the sheer number of tickets Clint had been able to win them. And what was best: he couldn’t have looked prouder. In fact, he insisted on the way home that they stop by a store and purchase all three Jurassic Park movies, which they watched in a row when they got home. Phil propped the t-rex (whom he’d named ‘Bart’) on the floor beside him, and patted his head each time the tyrannosaur appeared on screen. 

Clint was aware he was in big trouble. But he was beginning not to care. 

The kisses continued, as the days passed. Phil--because he was always Phil now--had also taken to holding his hand as they watched movies, or even just walked down the street together. When Clint pointed out that S.H.I.E.L.D. was undoubtedly running surveillance on them, Phil simply smiled, and tugged him in for a brief kiss--right in the middle of the sidewalk--then kept on talking about what they would need to make homemade sushi. 

Which they did, that night, Phil laughing the whole time at the excessive amount of rice Clint had used, resulting in his roll looking more like a burrito. He’d made Phil laugh even harder when he’d picked it up whole and taken a huge bite as if it _was_ a burrito. 

He could, he decided, get _very_ used to that laugh. 

They didn’t spend every second together. Clint still went on runs frequently, and Phil took breaks to read, or practice the cello (and who knew that someone like Phil Coulson played a musical instrument?), or go for a coffee run to the little shop on the corner. Clint himself took time alone in his room, reading or taking naps. 

But for the most part, they spent time together. And after about a week, Clint was beginning to feel restless. Phil hadn’t mentioned...well. That whole sub/dom thing...since the first full day he’d spent at the apartment. And while Clint was definitely okay with ignoring it at first, now it was starting to feel like the elephant in the room again: the big, important _thing_ they’d touched on and then ignored for the last six days. He wondered if Phil was waiting for him to make the move--and if so, how did _that_ make any sense, wasn’t he the one who said Clint was the sub?--or if he’d decided to forego the entire thing (seemed unlikely, given how passionate and certain he’d been when he’d told Clint about it). 

But if that wasn’t the case...what was he waiting for? 

Finally, one afternoon exactly eight days after the incident that had gotten them grounded, Clint couldn’t take it anymore. He set down the knife with which he’d been chopping tomatoes, and turned to face Phil, who was currently wrist-deep in noodles. 

“Phil...I think we should...talk.” Lord, he _never_ thought _he’d_ be the one saying those words... 

“Hmm?” Phil turned toward him, face open and patient, and waited expectantly. 

“First, shoot me if I ever say that again,” Clint said, making a face at himself. God, how pathetic could he get?

Phil smiled, chuckling as he began laying the noodles out in the pan. “What’s on your mind, Clint?” 

“That whole...sub/dom thing,” Clint replied, returning to cutting the tomatoes, though he wasn’t entirely certain he should be handling a sharp implement just then. “Were we going to...revisit that at all?”

“If you like,” Phil said. “When you’re ready. If you want to.” 

“Are you supposed to be that casual about it?” Clint asked, glancing up at Phil, frowning slightly. “It seemed like a big fucking deal.”

Phil looked over at him quietly. “It is,” he agreed. “Which is why we’ve been taking it slow.” 

“Fair enough,” Clint replied, swallowing and forcing himself to concentrate on cutting the tomatoes. He didn’t want to lose a finger getting agitated over this. “But it’s been a week, so...what would it mean? What would we _do_?” Because all that talk about control and trust and safety sounded, well...it sounded fucking _awesome_ , but how the hell was it supposed to work?

Phil appeared behind him suddenly, and Clint was startled that he hadn’t heard the other man moving. He’d forgotten, because Phil didn’t flaunt it, but the man could be a fucking _ninja_ when he wanted to be. “First,” he said, “we put the knife down when we’re talking about this sort of thing so we don’t lose any digits.” 

“No arguments there,” Clint replied, setting the knife aside and taking a deep breath. “Should...maybe not the best time to bring this up, huh?”

Phil smiled gently. “Nothing here won’t keep,” he said softly. “And if it goes bad, it’s nothing we can’t replace. The best time to bring this up is whenever you’re ready to talk about it.” 

Clint let out a long breath and nodded. “Okay. Uh. Don’t know if I’m ready, exactly, but it’s happening, so...don’t want to wait to get around to it again in another week.”

Phil nodded, taking Clint’s hand into his own and drawing him into the living room, onto the couch that had been their mainstay for the last week. There, Phil drew him down onto the cushions, and sat facing him, still holding his hand in his own. “Well,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, looking down at their fingers, at Phil’s pale, smooth skin caught against his own, darker, rougher. Seemed to match with the rest of this, Phil having everything under control and Clint feeling anything but. “What’s second?”

“Have you decided it’s something you want?” Phil said gently, reaching up to cup Clint’s cheek. “Because I won’t do this if it isn’t, Clint. I’m not into that non-con stuff.” He smiled, giving Clint a tiny wink. 

“Neither am I,” Clint replied wryly. He squared his shoulders slightly and nodded, meeting Phil’s eyes. “I...yeah. Think maybe you had a point. And not just ‘cause I dropped to my knees for you,” he added, giving Phil a look. That’d been as embarrassing as it’d been hot, but he hadn’t been able to get his mind away from it since it’d happened.

Phil had the grace to look a little sheepish. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to prove a point, but I could have found a better way to do that. Are you alright?” 

“I wasn’t saying I didn’t like it,” Clint replied, feeling his cheeks flush. “Still not sure how you did it, but...it was...good.” 

At that, Phil’s smile turned darker, his eyes seeming to change ever so slightly. They went hooded, cool, confident. “It was, was it?” he said softly. 

Clint swallowed, hard, feeling himself _respond_ , to the tone, the look on Phil’s face. “It...yeah,” he breathed, his mouth suddenly dry. _Fuck..._

Phil chuckled, then, his face softening back again, and suddenly he was the Phil Clint recognized. “I dommed you,” he said simply, shrugging. “It’s...I wish I could explain it better. But the dom in me called out the sub in you, and you were eager to obey. But you weren’t ready then, so it went no further. And before it goes further today, I need to know what you want.” 

Clint swallowed again, the sudden and complete change that overcame Phil throwing him off for a second. But it reassured him, too. Whatever this was, this thing that could be between them...it wouldn’t be everything. He’d still have the Phil he’d had all week, the sweet, incredibly thoughtful, sometimes dorky, and always wonderful man he _knew_ he was falling way more in love with than he should. Didn’t seem to be stopping him. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Um. What’re my options?”

Phil chuckled, settling back a bit. “Well, I suppose that’s up to you,” he said lightly. “I don’t have many limits. I have a few, but not many. And I suppose that depends on whether or not you want this to be sexual. It doesn’t have to be. This is why the sub is actually in charge: this is all up to you.” 

“What about you?” Clint asked, frowning slightly. “That doesn’t seem...don’t you get a say in things?” It wouldn’t be right, if Phil didn’t. Especially when he’d be doing most the work, from what little Clint knew of how these things actually worked. (And what the internet had shown him, over the last week)

“Of course,” Phil said, smile deepening. “That’s why I have limits. And please don’t make the mistake of thinking I’ll be getting nothing out of creating the experience you desire.” 

“What do you get out of it?” Clint asked, looking down at their entwined hands again, feeling his fingers twitch against Phil’s. “If you’re just...doing what I want?”

Phil considered the question for a moment. “It’s...difficult to explain,” he said at last. “There’s...it’s extremely gratifying to know you trust me enough to give you what you want. To tell me what you desire, that you’ve maybe never told anyone else. It’s incredibly hot to get to watch you take pleasure in it, if that is a sexual desire. And it’s...fulfilling, to know that I am the one who will stop things for you, when you give me the word, because you have trusted me to do so.” 

“So you get off on being trusted,” Clint said slowly. That...made sense, actually. He could see the attraction, of having someone put their life, their pleasure, their well-being in your hands. He wasn’t sure he’d want it for himself, but he could definitely _get_ it. And it was what the whole damn thing boiled down to, wasn’t it? He needed to trust Phil, Phil needed to _be_ trusted...and this was a fucking excellent way to get there. Even if they hadn’t already wanted each other. Maybe Fury hadn’t fucked up in sending them off together. “I get that.”

“That’s definitely one way to look at it,” Phil agreed, nodding. “So. What will we do, Agent Barton?” His voice had dipped, as he said Clint’s name like that, and reached new levels of silkiness--ones Clint hadn’t even known he could reach. 

“Fuck, I can’t _think_ when you talk like that,” Clint managed breathlessly, shaking his head, want coiling deep in his belly. “Uh...you’re...you’re okay with it being sexual?”

“More than okay,” Phil said, and there was a gravely sort of tone to his voice now that told Clint he hadn’t been lying, when he’d said he would be gratified by whatever they did as well. “Believe me, Clint. _More_ than okay.” 

“Good...good to know,” Clint said, fairly certain the oxygen level in the room had somehow dropped. “So. Um. What...should I tell you what I...like, or...what?” he asked, embarrassment again fighting with arousal.

“You could definitely do that,” Phil said, smile growing. “It would be good to know. If I may make a suggestion?” 

“Please.” 

“Give something to me. Control of something. You decide what, but the more you learn to let go of control, the more I think you’ll enjoy this.” 

“Like what?” Clint asked, trying to think through the stab of desire the suggestion sent through him. “When I get to come or something?”

“That’s always a good one,” Phil said, nodding. “Though it takes practice to be able to control yourself, to learn to come on command. I wouldn’t expect you to be able to do it perfectly the first time.” 

“What...what’re some other ones?” Clint asked, licking his lips and forcing himself to keep breathing steadily. He could give up a lot to this man, he realized, a hell of a lot, and Phil would just...accept it. Accept, but not take. He’d probably even give it right back. “You’ve done this more’n I have...probably done a lot more than I have.”

Phil chuckled softly. “There are plenty of options,” he agreed. “The ability to come. When you are allowed to speak. Your senses. Your mobility. Your ability to breathe. When you are permitted to relieve yourself.” 

Clint blinked, curling in around himself as the list went on and his cock started to press very insistently against the seam of his jeans. “Shit, you weren’t kidding,” he muttered, again forcing himself to take a deep breath. “You...and so you’d...take that on, and I’d just...trust you to take care of it? What happens if I do it anyway?”

“If you disobey?” Phil all but purred. 

Clint swallowed, hard, his cock twitching. “Uh...yeah. That.”

Phil smirked. “Well. That all depends on our parameters, of course. And I will be willing to consider giving you some leeway when we are still in the training period. But after that, I anticipate there will be punishment.” 

“What kind?” Clint asked, the thought almost a bucket of cold water over his head, cooling the arousal that’d been overwhelming him back to a manageable level. “I don’t usually...do so good with that.”

“Nothing you wouldn’t want,” Phil said softly, reaching up and stroking his cheek. “You would determine that as well, Clint. This is all in your control; nothing happens if you don’t want it to.” 

“So I’d...decide if I wanted to disobey, and then get in trouble in a way I’d decided beforehand?” Clint asked, grinning slowly. “Yeah, not seeing a downside there,” he admitted. This still seemed kinda fucked up, but then...so was he. So it fit.

Phil chuckled. “Exactly,” he said. “As you shouldn’t. There _isn’t_ a downside; it’s something you want, it’s consensual and safe, and it’s all pre-meditated. All of it.” 

“So there’s a briefing and everything, huh?” Clint said, grin widening as his brain started to spin out helpful scenarios for him, images of what he and Phil might do together. “Okay. I can get behind that. You said you had some limits...mind telling me what they are?”

“Sure,” Phil said, sitting back. “Blood. Excessive pain--spanking’s one thing, but I won’t be whipping you or pulling out your fingernails. Um.” He blushed. “Fecal matter. Vomit.” 

Clint shuddered. “Ugh, don’t blame you there.” There were people who got off on that? To each his own, but...ugh. “Okay. So. Um. We just...pick something and go with it? Or is there a whole...mission brief we’ve gotta write first?”

Phil laughed. “We can pick something and go with it for the most part,” he said. “But at least the first time, we need to cover things pretty carefully. I need to know what things might trigger negative reactions in you, what might make it go from ‘hell yeah’ to ‘get me the fuck out of here’ so I can avoid them. The safeword should honestly be a last resort; well-oiled sub-dom teams rarely need to use theirs, unless the goal of their scenario was to push to the point of needing to.” 

Clint nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. That made...a hell of a lot of sense, even if it wasn’t going to be the most pleasant conversation he’d ever had. “Makes sense to me. But if we’re gonna talk about...about some of that shit, I need a beer.” He glanced over at Phil, squeezing his hand gently. “You might, too.”

Phil nodded, as Clint got up and went to the fridge, grabbing a couple of the beers he’d been sure they picked up last time they were at the store. He handed one to Phil, then sat back down on the couch in front of him. Phil gave him a small smile, and reached out, offering his hand. 

Clint took it, even though a part of him wanted to curl up behind a pillow for safety’s sake. Not that it’d do much good, but it was a barrier between him and...everything. He took a long drag on his beer before balancing the bottle on his knee, glancing over at Phil again. “Okay. So...uh. What do you need to know?”

“Only what you want to tell me,” Phil said softly. “But I need to know what to avoid. I don’t want to hurt you, Clint, even unintentionally. So if you were, say, bitten by a dog as a child, and the idea of being bitten is now horribly scary to you, I need to know not to bite you. Not that I had plans to bite you,” he added with a small smile, “but you get the idea.” 

“Biting’s okay,” Clint replied, feeling his cheeks flush slightly. Least he could blame the beer. “Uh. Okay. Things you should avoid. Um. Well. I kinda doubt you would, but...” he looked down at his beer, not really wanting to see Phil’s face for this, “no hitting. Or, I guess...humiliation shit?”

“No, baby, no,” Phil murmured, sliding a little closer, stroking Clint’s cheek gently. “Of course not.” 

Clint shivered, slightly, at the endearment, finding he liked it a great deal more than he would’ve thought before. “I think...that’s mainly it,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I...hell, you know I’ve got issues. You’ve seen my file.”

Phil set his beer aside and slid forward, leaning in to press a soft kiss at Clint’s temple. “Then let me help you with them,” he murmured. “Let me try to fix some of what they did to you. Let me try to make it right.” 

“You sure you want to take that on?” Clint asked, afraid to look up, afraid of what he might see. This was the most he’d ever really _talked_ about this shit since...well. Ever. But Phil wasn’t backing away from it. The opposite, if anything. “It’s...there’s a lot of crap there, Phil.”

“And you’ve been dealing with it alone long enough,” Phil said firmly. “Let me in, Clint. Let me help. _Please_.” 

Clint took a deep breath, before finally lifting his head, meeting Phil’s eyes. And he saw no hesitation there. No fear. Determination, yes, and the quiet confidence that’d bolstered his own through every op they’d run together. Maybe Phil could get them out the other side of this one, too. If Clint just let him. “I...okay.”

Phil smiled, leaning in and kissing his cheek. “Good, baby,” he murmured. “Good. Now. What do you want?” 

Clint shivered again, at the endearment, feeling a soft warmth move through his chest. “Uh. God. Good question.” He took a last drink of his beer, thinking over everything Phil had suggested--and everything he’d seen himself in his searches online. “I’m not sure. Every time I’ve been with someone it’s been...kinda straightforward.”

“Will you permit me to make a suggestion?” Phil murmured gently. 

“Suggest away,” Clint replied wryly. “Not like I know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Phil smiled, leaning in to kiss him. When he pulled back, he said, “I want you to strip completely. You are not to touch yourself, nor are you permitted to touch me. And I want you to let yourself feel as I touch _you_.” 

Clint raised an eyebrow, grinning slowly. “Shit, really?” he asked, shivering slightly. That sounded...well. Pretty awesome. Nothing he’d ever done before, either...he’d always made sure he was the one doing the touching, the fucking. Controlling it. But this was about the opposite, wasn’t it? “Okay...yeah. Yeah, sure. I can go for that.”

Phil smirked, nodding. “Good,” he murmured, rising and standing back folding his arms over his chest. “The safeword is ‘safeword.’ Easy to remember. Are you ready, Clint?” 

“Yes, sir,” Clint replied, setting his empty beer bottle on the coffee table, anticipation singing through his veins. This was easily the strangest thing he’d ever done in bed--never mind that they weren’t even in a bedroom--but he didn’t regret it for a second. It felt...safe, he realized. Like he’d still be okay with Phil being there afterward.

“Good. When we start this...” Phil hesitated. “It’s...think of it as acting. Playing a role. I will be...very little will make me ‘break character,’ as it were. Understood?” 

Clint nodded. “Not exactly deep cover, but I get it,” he assured Phil. Made sense, too...the Agent Coulson he dealt with in the field wasn’t quite Phil, either. If this could really be considered a part of his training--and God he hoped Fury didn’t know if it was--it could only help, too.

“Good. Now,” Phil said, eyes and voice darkening and deepening, “Remove your clothing, please.” 

Clint swallowed, wondering for a moment what would happen if he _didn’t_. But he really, really wanted to. Something about the way Phil’s voice sounded, the look on his face...Clint wanted to do as he said. To make him proud.

So he stood, stripping quickly, efficiently, not really considering putting on a show until it was far too late and his clothes lay puddled at his feet.

“Good,” Phil murmured, smiling slightly. He walked around Clint, studying every inch of him, and nodded approval after a moment. “Very good. You take good care of your body.” He stepped forward, and Clint felt his fingertips alight at the small of his back, stroking there gently. 

Clint shivered, skin twitching under Phil’s touch like that of a nervous horse, even as the praise warmed him. He lowered his eyes, lips quirking slightly at the sight of his cock, already flushed and hard, when Phil had barely started. 

Phil moved around him, gently stroking his skin, fingertips stroking lightly and tracing his muscled shoulders, chest, abdomen. He was still fully clothed, soft jeans and a button down shirt which was rolled up to his forearms and very soft, obviously well-worn and well-loved. As it should be; the deep greens set off the hazel gray of his eyes wonderfully. Clint swallowed, wondering why he was choosing _now_ to notice these kinds of details about Phil. 

Phil moved around him again, still inspecting him carefully, but this time when he was behind him, he stopped. A moment later, Clint felt him slide up, the warmth of him at Clint’s back, and a soft kiss landed on his bare shoulder. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “Very beautiful. Don’t worry. No one is ever going to hurt you again. You’re mine now, and I take care of those under my care. You’re safe now. Safe.” 

Clint tried to clamp down on a soft whimper and didn’t manage it in time, his cock bobbing hard at Phil’s words, his whole body leaning back into Phil’s warmth. The combination of his words and his reassurances washed over Clint, and he felt his muscles start to relax, some unnamed tension flowing out of him.

“Very good,” Phil whispered, sliding his hands up onto Clint’s hips, cupping the bones in his palms. “Very good, love. You’re doing so well. Does this feel good? Knowing I’m here, knowing I have you?” 

Clint nodded, letting his head fall back against Phil’s shoulder after he did so. “Yes,” he whispered, his body seeming to melt into Phil’s touch, to give over to him.

“Yes, what?” Phil murmured, stroking Clint’s sides. 

“Yes, sir,” Clint murmured, biting his lip softly at the lapse, and the odd feeling that arose in his chest. Not shame, not as he’d so long known it, that hot, choking sensation of not-good-enough. This was different, but no less powerful. “Sorry...”

“Mmm. Forgiven, love, of course you’re forgiven,” Phil whispered, kissing Clint’s neck as his fingertips moved higher and slid around, stroking his chest. “I know you’re trying very hard to please me. I know you want to make me happy. Don’t you?” 

“Yes, sir,” Clint whispered, stopping his hands from coming up and covering Phil’s, his arms twitching with the abortive movement. He wanted to _touch_ , but more than that, Phil was right. He wanted to make him happy.

“Ah ah, good boy, _good boy_ ,” Phil whispered, his thumbs gently stroking Clint’s nipples. “You know you aren’t to touch me. I know it’s difficult for you, but you’re doing so well. Such a good boy, aren’t you?” 

Clint couldn’t answer, this time, though he knew Phil was waiting for him, wanting him to. But the words stuck in his throat and he closed his eyes, surprised to feel tears welling under the lashes.

“It’s okay, love, it’s alright,” Phil murmured, kissing the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “I understand; you’re all right. Mmm. You like this...I can feel it. This feels so good for you, me touching you, doesn’t it? I want you to feel good, love. I want you to feel nothing but pleasure. You deserve it, dearest, and so much more. You’re so good; such a sweet, pure soul. I’ll take care of you, forever, if you wish. Do you wish it? Do you wish to give yourself to me, let me look after you?” 

“Y-yes, sir,” Clint managed, the words breaking apart, slightly, under the sudden heaviness of his breathing and the depth of his desire. Fuck, _yes_ , he wanted what Phil was offering. He wanted it so badly it scared the shit out of him, it overwhelmed him. And he knew that just half an hour before, he wouldn’t have been able to admit it. But somehow this...this being naked, held by Phil’s strength, held up by him, touched by him...it quieted all the reasons he should push this away and left him raw and needing. “Pl-please...”

“There, there, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Phil said. “I’ve got you. You don’t have to ask me twice. I’ll take care of you.” He eased his hands down, stroking Clint’s abdomen gently, before letting one hand slide lower still and brush against the straining head of Clint’s cock. “I’ll take care of this too,” he whispered into Clint’s ear. “I’ll make you feel so good. Would you like that, love?” 

Clint nodded, swallowing hard as a few more tears slid out from under his lashes, despite his efforts to hold them back. “Yes...yes, sir,” he managed again, grateful Phil didn’t seem to need more from him in the way of words. He wasn’t sure he could blurt out anything more coherent.

“Ah, love. Shh, shh. I’m here. I have you.” His hand slid down further, closing gently around Clint’s erection and giving it a loving squeeze. 

Clint gasped, hard, his hips driving up before he could stop them, his hands clenching into tight fists. “ _God_!”

“Good, baby, _good_ ,” Phil whispered, kissing his neck. “That feels so good, doesn’t it? You poor sweet thing, you’ve never had anyone focused on you before, have you?” He gave the length in his hand a gentle stroke, rubbing his thumb over the liquid pooling at the head. 

“N-no, sir,” Clint stuttered around another deep gasp, squeezing his eyes shut. And the simple fact of it was that he _hadn’t_. He’d always approached sex as something to get through. Masturbation the same way. He was good at getting himself off quickly, efficiently, without really thinking about it. And it _definitely_ didn’t feel like this, when he did. “ _Fuck..._ ”

“Ooh, such language,” Phil chided lightly, giving him another squeeze. 

“Sorry, sir,” Clint groaned, pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to stop himself from cursing again. Not if Phil kept doing such ridiculously filthy things to him, with just his _hand_. “Didn’t mean...I...oh Jesus _fuck_...”

Phil chuckled. “We’ll work on that,” he murmured, nipping at his earlobe, then dragging his fingertips up Clint’s shaft, tickling lightly. “Mmm. I like watching you squirm.” He reached further below Clint’s cock, moving to cup and cradle his balls in his hand and give them a gentle squeeze. “So tight, so full. You don’t take care of yourself very often, love, do you?” 

Clint shook his head, groaning as Phil squeezed again, the gentle ache rippling all through him, head to toe. “No...no, sir. Never....never got into the...the habit...” Oh _God_ , Phil was killing him with just his fingers.

“Mmm. Well, that’s alright,” Phil murmured. “In fact, I like that. From now on, I want to be the only one to do this for you. I want to make certain when you are touched, you are being touched with all the love and care you deserve. I don’t trust anyone but me to do that for you. Do you understand, love? No one is to touch you but me--not even you.” 

“Yes, sir,” Clint breathed, surprised when the words came out clearly, even as his cock jumped, slapping lightly against Phil’s wrist as the other man kept caressing his balls. But he couldn’t deny for a moment what he thought of it, of giving this up to Phil, of turning what had been something of a chore into a moment like this...God. Yeah. Yeah, he was more than okay with that. 

“Good,” Phil whispered. He moved, then, leaving a cold place at Clint’s back, but he didn’t go far, stepping into view in front of Clint. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with lust, and Clint swallowed, cock bobbing harder at the sight. Phil moved forward, leaning in until he was only a breath away from Clint’s mouth. Clint wanted, badly, to kiss him, but he remembered he was not supposed to touch Phil, and he guessed kissing counted as touching, so he waited instead. And a moment later, Phil pulled back, smiling. “ _Good_ ,” he murmured, nodding. “Good job.” He reached down and took Clint’s cock back in his hand, and began squeezing it gently. “Would you like to be in my mouth, love?” he whispered. “Would you like for me to suck you?” 

“I...I don’t know, sir,” Clint admitted, biting his lip, trying to keep his hips still, but not quite able to keep them from thrusting forward into Phil’s touch. “I’ve never....”

Phil looked up quickly, and for the barest fraction of a second, Clint thought he saw surprise in his eyes. But it was gone quickly, as Phil moved forward, drawing Clint into his arms and stroking his back. His thigh moved between Clint’s, giving Clint something to push against, and he did so, groaning, as one of Phil’s hands moved to cradle his head and the other cupped and kneaded his ass. “Oh, my love,” he murmured. “You have been denied so much. But this is good, in a way. I am glad I’ll be the first one to bring you this pleasure. Perhaps not this time, though; it may be overwhelming for you the first time. I think I would like to see you take your pleasure another way this time.” 

Clint laid his head against Phil’s shoulder, nodding there, feeling a weight lift from him. Phil had been surprised, yes, but he hadn’t...there’d been no ridicule accompanying the surprise. No laughter or disbelief. Just...acceptance. And while intellectually he hadn’t expected anything else, truly seeing it was nearly overwhelming. “Yes, sir,” he whispered, again feeling tears in his eyes and again letting them fall. Phil wouldn’t judge him for them, he was sure.

“Come on, then, love,” Phil murmured, drawing him forward, backing up until he was back at the couch. He sat down, then drew Clint down with him, arranging him so Clint straddled his lap. His cock lay full and hard and heavy against Phil’s crotch, which, Clint now realized, was tented up in his jeans rather nicely. So he _was_ enjoying this. Clint felt a measure of relief. 

“I want to watch your face as you finish,” Phil murmured, reaching down and laying his hand over Clint’s cock so he was cupping it against his own. “You may move your hips, if you like. I would like you to rub against me until you cannot stop yourself from coming in my lap.” 

Clint nodded, beyond words at the thought, and gripped Phil’s shoulders, giving himself leverage to rub slowly against him. He groaned, deeply, his hips pressing forward again, then again, the burning friction of Phil’s jeans combining with the soft touch of his hand to make Clint’s head fall back and his hips take over.

In moments he was grinding down against him, mind losing track of anything but coming, anything but finishing, anything but giving Phil exactly what he had asked for--the chance to watch him finish.

“Good, love,” Phil moaned beneath him. “Good...yes, love, that’s it. That’s it. Find your pleasure, take it. I’m so proud of you, love. Do you hear me? _So proud of you_.” 

Clint grunted, deeply, Phil’s words overcoming him as much as the fucking _incredible_ sensation in his cock. He moved harder, faster, knowing it wouldn’t be long, that he was close, so close, so, “...close,” he gasped, before spilling, spilling, his face screwed tightly up against the sensation of it, the moment when he lost every part of who he was and simply _felt_.

It took a long time to come back down. When he did, Phil was still cupping his cock gently, his thumb stroking the still-dribbling slit fondly. Clint shuddered, the sensation just the perfect edge of _too much_ in his post-orgasmic ultra-sensitive haze. It took him a moment to realize Phil was speaking, murmuring in that low voice: “ _Good. Good job, love. Good job_.” 

Clint shuddered once more, blinking again and again as he realized tears were slipping down his cheeks. He let his head droop, his breathing quieting slowly, though he felt very far from calm. That had been...fuck, that’d been a _hand job_ and he’d gone off like a goddamn rocket.

“Clint?” Phil murmured, reaching up now, cupping Clint’s face between his hands. His voice was no longer the deep, silky, demanding voice from before, but Phil--just Phil, gentle and kind and concerned. “Clint, are you alright?” 

“I...yeah,” Clint gulped, taking a deep, slow breath and trying to get himself under control. “Yeah, I think so.”

Phil smiled up at him, drawing him down for an embrace. “Good,” he murmured, as he hugged him gently. “That was...incredible.” 

Clint snorted, softly, thinking the word wasn’t even remotely adequate to describe what’d just happened. “Understatement,” he agreed tiredly, curling up on Phil’s lap, leaning heavily against him. A small, distant part of him was embarrassed at how, well... _submissive_ he’d been, but it was hard to listen to when the rest of him felt a simple, bone deep contentment.

Phil kissed his forehead, then sighed softly. “We should clean up,” he murmured. “Go take a nap, maybe.” 

Clint shook his head, making a wordless noise of protest as he pressed closer. “No,” he pouted, knowing it was ridiculous and not really caring. He didn’t want to let go of Phil. Not yet. And he was too tired to move.

Phil chuckled. “All right,” he said. “That’s all right. Do you mind if I get out of these clothes, then? They’re a bit damp.” 

“Do I have to move?” Clint asked, opening one eye and trying to meet Phil’s gaze without moving his head. It didn’t work.

“Not much,” Phil promised, before undertaking a series of complicated maneuvers that somehow ended with him in his boxers and undershirt only, his jeans and the button-down he’d been wearing crumpled on the floor beside the couch. He squirmed down so they were both lying on the couch, Clint curled up and tucked under Phil’s chin. It was then he realized he could feel Phil’s erection, firm against his thigh. 

Clint blushed, ashamed he hadn’t even noticed Phil hadn’t... “I’m sorry,” he said, running his hand down Phil’s chest, trying to wake himself up enough to finish things like he should. “Didn’t mean to forget about you...”

Phil caught his hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing his fingertips gently. “Shh,” he murmured. “Sleep, Clint.” 

“But you’re...you didn’t...”

“This wasn’t for me. It was for you. Relax.” He smiled, kissing Clint’s brow again. “I’m sure there will be plenty of chances to reciprocate later,” he teased gently. 

Clint frowned, not certain he understood. But when he tried to move his hand again, Phil held it fast, so he sighed and relaxed. “If you’re sure,” he murmured, eyes closing once again. Some distant part of his brain was trying to wake him up, make him move, but he pushed it down, letting the drowsy contentment flow through him. “Phil...thank you.”

Phil held him closer, stroking his back gently. “Of course,” he whispered. “Get some rest, Clint.” 

“Mmkay,” Clint murmured against his chest. Phil didn’t answer, just held him, stroking his hair in that wonderfully soothing way, and before he’d even fully decided to, Clint had fallen fast asleep.

* * *

Phil swallowed, holding Clint closer still as the younger man’s breathing evened out and deepened. He sighed, pressing another gentle kiss to Clint’s sweat-dampened hair, thinking that in all the months he’d known the archer, he’d never seen him fall asleep like this--unguarded, out in the open and exposed. Hell, he was even _naked_ , Phil reflected. He had the feeling this was a big moment for Clint, whether he realized it or not. He wondered if the other man had ever slept with anyone before. 

He couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief as well, that he apparently hadn’t managed to fuck up the first big step in what he was trying to do for Clint. He had suspected it would turn out to be sexual, if they ever did go back to the sub/dom dynamic, but he honestly hadn’t known if it ever would. For all his certainty that Clint was a sub, there was still no guarantee that he would want this with Phil. 

The fact that he apparently did was heartening, even if Phil suspected he was getting himself in far too deep. He was glad Clint had taken most of his talking during to be part of the game; he was a little embarrassed at how much he’d revealed. What had he been thinking, calling Clint “love”? They weren’t even dating--had barely kissed--and now, just because Clint had consented to one rather tame little game, he was using pet names that bared his heart? 

He sighed, closing his eyes as he held Clint closer. The other man had begun to shiver, no doubt a reaction to the cooling sweat on his naked skin, so Phil reached up and dragged the blanket down off the back of the couch, draping it over them both. Clint squirmed, adjusting himself in his arms, and Phil closed his eyes when the other man’s leg brushed against his half-hard cock. He hadn’t come, it was true--he was too experienced for that--but he’d come far, far closer than he’d ever come before, without meaning to, in that kind of circumstance. Clint had been incredible, lithe and abandoned and built and gorgeous, and it had been all Phil could do to hold onto their game as he’d gazed up at the beautiful creature writhing with such abandon above him. 

He smiled, when Clint mumbled something and burrowed in against his neck. The other man had done well coming down from the submissive state he’d been wound up into, too--Phil had been worried, not knowing how the archer would respond to the blatant evidence of how submissive he truly was. But he’d seemed to take it in stride as he always did; it was one of the things Phil had always admired about him. If anyone could roll with the punches, it was Clint Barton. 

Phil just hated that he’d had to learn how the hard way. 

Well. No more. Phil closed his eyes, burying his nose in Clint’s hair. He’d meant what he’d said--Clint was safe, now. Phil was never going to let anyone hurt him, ever again. And when Phil Coulson made a promise, he _kept_ it. 

Clint Barton was his now. The world would just have to get used to that. And woe befall the next idiot who thought he could lay a single finger on him. 

* * *

Epilogue: 

* * *

Fury looked down at the report in front of him, then back up at Phil, who held his gaze blandly. He looked down again, and steepled his fingers over the text. 

“You’re certain?” he asked, looking back up at Phil. 

Phil nodded. “Beyond a shadow of a doubt, sir.” 

Fury nodded slowly. “All right. It’s on you, Agent Coulson. The suspension is lifted. You and Agent Barton are returned to active duty, effective immediately.” 

Phil smiled, ever so slightly, an expression that was more in his eyes than on his lips, and nodded. ‘Thank you, sir,” he said. 

Fury waved a hand. “Dismissed, Agent.” 

Phil nodded, turning smartly and striding from Fury’s office. Fury watched him go, then looked back down at the report--perhaps the most succinct Phil had ever handed him: 

_Objectives met_. 

Fury picked up the report, then smiled, balling it and tossing it into the trash can. 

It was a perfect shot, of course. Nick Fury wasn’t a man known for missing his targets. 

* * *


End file.
